


Heavy

by exactly13percent (superagentwolf)



Series: The AU Court [15]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Chapter 1 - Brief references to abusive relationship, Chapter 2 - entirely smut, Character Study, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Ichirou/Nathan, Past Relationship(s), Professor!Stuart Hatford, Salted Earth AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-21 19:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/exactly13percent
Summary: The Salted Earth  AU| The Sequel Work, for Context (not required)Ichirou is sent away to a university on the other side of the world. He finds a familiar face, and something far more unfamiliar. Something tempting. He thinks it might be called love.





	1. Figure Out Why

**Author's Note:**

> Song is Heavy by Birdtalker

Nathan was always an asshole. That was why Ichirou had chased him—though he’d never admit to it being chasing. He would pretend that it was just a way to pass the time.

Ichirou would have bruises on his legs for days. Uncomfortable ones, with fingerprints that he could not rub away. He would stare at the marks in the shower, unwilling to press his hands against them but unable to look away.

The last round of bruises has only just faded when Nathan turns up dead, a bullet and a hole in his head the size of Ichirou’s nearly calcified heart.

He cannot bring himself to _feel_. Ichirou vomits in his private bathroom and cleans up immediately after, his hair combed back into place before he leaves to attend his father.

Ichirou is aware that his uncle will not have blood on his hands. He would not stain himself. Not with Nathan’s death, and not with his life.

When Ichirou kneels, Tetsuji says, “You will leave for university tomorrow.”

Ichirou is not allowed to respond. He is escorted to his room, and he is not allowed to leave until he goes for good.

* * *

Ichirou arrives on the grounds of the university in a black car. It is _the_ black car, he thinks with dark amusement. The Moriyamas have specific tastes.

He is supposed to have specific tastes.

It is hard to untangle himself from the family. He is aware of this as he emerges from the car and the driver unloads his luggage, waiting on Ichirou hand and foot just like everyone else has ever done.

Almost everyone else.

Ichirou is nineteen and away from the Castle for the first time in his miserable life, and he does not even have the strength to throw himself from the cliff five feet away from his feet.

He laughs.

This is exactly what the Emperor wanted.

* * *

The school uniform is not required. It does not, in fact, even exist. The uniform is the fact that all students at the university are disgustingly rich, and they wear horrifically expensive clothes.

Ichirou is wearing a wool blazer, his first day of classes. His schedule was chosen before he arrived, just as the school was chosen for him. He only follows what he is given, and he finds small comfort in the knowledge that the Emperor is not here to see him.

Even if his people are.

There is no room for failure, anymore. Ichirou is expected to follow every rule set before him; his time to run wild is gone. He is no longer home, where his father’s reach could smooth away any mistakes like wrinkles on a page. Influence has established Ichirou at the school. It will only keep him there—and alive—so long as he follows the rules.

His third class of the day is a lecture. Ichirou takes his seat and folds his hands in his lap as he waits, the voice whispering in his ear reminding him to sit straight.

Ichirou’s posture only lasts until the professor arrives, bringing with him the out-of-place shuffle of someone unconcerned with how proper they might or might not appear.

Stuart. He looks just the same, with his blue-gray eyes and strawberry blonde hair that falls in curls around his head. He is wearing a halo when the sun shines through the window by the lecture dais. Stuart smiles, his sweater slightly askew as he carelessly tosses his briefcase onto a table near him, and Ichirou’s world lurches to a halt.

“Good morning,” Stuart announces, and his soft accent slices through the fog of Ichirou’s stunned mind. “I am Professor Hatford.”

Ichirou doesn’t hear the rest. His stomach lurches at the sound of the name and he jerks to his feet, snapping his books shut as he stumbles away.

 _God damn the rules,_ he thinks, as cold sweat trickles over his spine. _And God damn my father._

* * *

There is a knock on his door at five o’clock on the third day since he has skipped class.

Ichirou partly expects to be taken out and shot. He wonders if they would shove him in a car over the side of the cliffs.

Instead, Stuart presses the door open. He does not cross into the room.

The silence that stretches in the space between them is awful. Ichirou nearly throws himself out the window just to avoid it. He settles for asking instead, “What do you want?”

“May I come in?”

Ichirou stares. _All that time to ask?_ “…yes.”

Stuart steps in carefully. He leaves the door open wide, his hands clasped before his body as if they are handcuffed.

 _I remember you,_ Ichirou thinks, and he wishes he didn’t. He remembers Nathan’s wife, Mary, and how one day, Nathan stopped talking about her. Ichirou remembers the dread and the solid core of ice in his chest. He remembers Mary’s brother, Stuart, and how the man would sometimes visit. How he would pay respects to the Emperor alongside Nathan.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Stuart’s question drags Ichirou from his thoughts. From the past. He stares back at the older man, defiant. Challenging. “You’ve only just arrived. What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Nothing,” Stuart says again, just as calm. There is no threat to him, and he moves across the room to lean on the windowsill. His face is turned away, toward the world outside. The sun illuminates the side of his face.

He is not related to Nathan, except by marriage. _Was,_ Ichirou reminds himself. Nothing about Stuart is like Nathan. He is slighter, though not thin. He has a fairness to him; a faded tone that makes him seem perfectly at home in this castle in the country.

“I remember you,” Ichirou says quietly. He does not know why he speaks. He does not know why his voice shakes or why he asks, “Is she dead?”

Stuart’s eyes close. He could be sunbathing or allowing something. Pain, or anger. “Yes,” he says. “She is.”

Ichirou doesn’t know why it’s important.

He never had reservations about fucking a married man. It hurt just the same.

“I remember you, too,” Stuart says quietly. He turns to Ichirou, hands still clasped. He is still distant, physically, but Ichirou almost feels as if there is only a breath between him. Like—

—if he asked; if he said, Stuart would come right across the room.

“I don’t want to be here,” Ichirou whispers. “But I don’t want to go back.”

“I know.”

Stuart finally moves closer, but his hands stay carefully tucked against his chest. He kneels by Ichirou’s bed, still far enough to give him room, and looks up at him. “All we can do is move forward,” he says quietly. “And leave what’s heavy behind.”

Whatever it is—the words, the time, or three days of not eating—Ichirou collapses. He breaks, and he is crying when he finally falls against Stuart.

“It can’t be that easy,” he gasps, sucking in air between sobs he didn’t know he was capable of.

“It’s not,” Stuart whispers, some strange pain warping his words. “But I can help you break the chain.”

* * *

“…this doesn’t make sense.” Ichirou slides the paper across the desk.

Stuart looks up, vaguely surprised. It has been two weeks since his visit, and Ichirou has avoided him completely.

Old habits die hard, it seems.

“What?” Stuart reaches for something on his desk; his fingers do not find what they are looking for. He spends a few minutes searching before it strikes Ichirou that the man is looking for the glasses on his head.

Ichirou stares dumbly for a full minute before he can uncurl his hand to point.

“Ah.” Stuart smiles and flips them down. Ichirou temporarily loses his ability to speak. “So, what’s the issue?”

 _One. Two. Three._ Ichirou inhales and exhales. “It isn’t a comprehensive exam. There is no point in supplying us with knowledge that we will not be required to demonstrate.”

“Mmm.” Stuart flips through the syllabus, spinning from side to side in his chair as he does. Ichirou is tempted to reach out and stop him. “It’s not the information that concerns me.”

“Then why are you teaching it?”

Stuart looks up, a brief expression of amusement crossing his face before he schools it. He tucks his glasses back into his curls, leaning back into his chair. With one leg propped across the other, he seems more like a student than a professor.

This is irksome.

“You don’t always have to know everything,” Stuart says patiently. “You can try, and that is admirable, but the more important thing is to understand how to apply what you _do_ know.”

“So, there is no point.”

Stuart laughs, short and startled. He looks away, amazed, and then his blue-gray gaze turns back to Ichirou. “You have a brother, yes? Riko.”

Ichirou’s first response is panic. A knot in his throat as he thinks of all the possible threats that could come next. He imagines Riko, sulking but always _safer_ , and that safety being shattered. He thinks of attention otherwise turned on himself being redirected.

_It was a mistake to trust him._

“Yes,” Ichirou says, and he folds his hands politely, because there is a way to accept punishment and he will sit straight even as there is a knife at his neck.

Stuart’s smile flickers a little, uneasy. “Okay. Well, have you ever had to comfort him? When you knew you didn’t know what would happen?”

 _Yes._ Nothing bad, Ichirou would say, though he could feel stitches ripping beneath his bandages. No worries, he would say, when there was a summons. Go to bed, he would tell Riko, when the flashing lights of police cars woke him in the night.

“No.”

“Then you’re lucky,” Stuart says gently, but they both know the truth. Ichirou is a bad liar. He was not allowed to lie to the Emperor, so when would he have learned? “But it’s like this; when you don’t know, it is better to tell what you _do_ know.”

“That doesn’t—” Ichirou stops short, the argument dying on his tongue. He should not argue.

“I don’t know if I can help you,” Stuart says.

It comes from nowhere. The words land like stones and Ichirou can feel the bruises blooming under his skin, but—

—but they’re different.

“I just don’t know,” Stuart repeats, quiet. “But I will try. I can promise you that.”

* * *

The end of Ichirou’s first month does not prompt a magical change, but it does give him somewhere new to start.

Especially in Stuart’s class.

Ichirou is more willing to talk. To discuss in the lecture hall, where his voice floats to the high ceilings and resonates among stone and wood. If he cannot go free, at least his words can, and they pour forth more than he has ever been allowed before.

Perhaps he sometimes submits an argument simply because Stuart isn’t making sense, but Ichirou is the only one that knows that. It is a secret kept to himself, like the way he discovers that Stuart twists his watch on his wrist when he enjoys a particular point.

Nights are still fractured, and Ichirou still spends countless hours awaiting a summons, but there is time when he forgets about the Castle. Times when he allows himself to _be_ in this new one, instead.

It’s not as cold here. Maybe it’s the weather, or his jackets. Ichirou doesn’t know.

For the first time, he also doesn’t care.

* * *

It is colder as fall approaches. Much colder.

“You should be wearing a hat,” Stuart says, frowning. His hand gestures vaguely at Ichirou’s head. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I don’t have a hat,” Ichirou says, agitated. It is too damned cold, and he does not want to be outside. It’s Stuart’s fault for inviting him to lunch.

“No?” Stuart’s frown deepens. “Whatever happened to the one I sent you?”

Ichirou stops in his tracks. “What?”

For the first time, Ichirou thinks he sees a faint blush on Stuart’s cheeks.

It is probably not the best moment to contemplate the way Stuart’s lashes look against his flushed skin, or the helpless smile on his lips, or—

— _oh no_ —

— “I gave presents to…Mary’s husband,” Stuart settles. He glares into the distance. “I wanted to give them in person, but that was obviously a bad idea. I thought they would be passed on.”

“Why…would…”

“I was curious,” Stuart admits, laughing sheepishly. There are crinkles at the corners of his eyes and Ichirou cannot swallow past the hard lump in his throat. “We’d only met a few times, but I was interested. Not that it matters. I suppose nothing ever reached you, or Riko.”

Ichirou doesn’t know how to respond. He only sees Stuart start walking again and he follows, unable to speak or reach out or do anything but hold this close to his chest, like a lit match.

What little warmth he feels, Ichirou does not want it to go out.

* * *

“Honesty,” Stuart submits.

He chooses this word, when their student-mentor meeting is almost over. Ichirou only came to be advised of his final paper topic, just like everyone else in the class, but—

— “What?”

“It’s a game I used to play with my sister,” Stuart explains. “If one of us said ‘honesty’, it would start. We could only tell the truth or say nothing. It was a way for us to talk about difficult things or learn what we couldn’t talk about.”

“Oh.” Ichirou fiddles with the pen in his hand before consciously stilling his fingers. “And?”

“I will allow you in on the game. If you would like.”

Truth. It was the law, Ichirou thinks. The Emperor’s law.

He now realizes Stuart never presses for it.

“Fine,” Ichirou agrees. “It’s a deal.”

* * *

“Honesty,” Ichirou says.

Stuart glances at him, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. They look like a windy day, Ichirou has decided. “Honesty.”

“Did you ever like Nathan?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. Stuart grimaces, then passes Ichirou a mug from the cafeteria rack. The hot chocolate nearby smells amazing. “He was always too full of himself. Dangerous, too. I didn’t trust him, and I never liked him.”

 _And did you?_ Stuart doesn’t ask, but Ichirou does. He asks himself and finds that he does not know the answer.

Maybe he only liked how Nathan hurt him.

* * *

Stuart finds Ichirou in his room. The bed feels sticky from sweat, but he can’t roll out of it. He is too numb and sore. His body feels like a lead weight sinking into the earth.

“Dear heart.” The words are half-sighed as Stuart crouches at the bedside, his hand reaching to brush Ichirou’s hair away from his damp forehead. “How long have you been here?”

Ichirou closes his eyes. If he speaks, he might hear how bad he sounds. He might even open his eyes to the walls of the Castle, and then what?

Then this fever dream comes to a close, and he is left with the ache and pain of having lived through it.

“We need to find you some medicine, and you should bathe,” Stuart says, moving to stand.

Ichirou catches his sleeve without looking. He thinks his fingers might dig in too hard, but Stuart doesn’t say anything. He only moves closer to the bed, the wood beneath his feet creaking.

“Don’t. He can’t know…”

“Honesty,” Stuart says, but his voice is shaky.

Ichirou is too tired to care. Perhaps he has been too tired for some time, now. “Honesty.”

“Has he hurt you, when you were sick?”

 _When I wasn’t. When I was. Any time,_ Ichirou doesn’t say. He almost says nothing, but—

—but his tongue moves, and he says, “Yes.”

Ichirou counts the breaths Stuart takes. He listens and imagines the heart beating near his, close enough to reach but too far away. Stuart’s hand comes back to his head and Ichirou wants to cry. Wishes he could cry, like a child he never was.

“He will not know,” Stuart says quietly, and then Ichirou feels what might be lips on his forehead. “I will take care of you.”

* * *

“You are an absolute disgrace,” Ichirou growls.

Stuart stands in his bedroom doorway, hair a tumbleweed mess and a cardigan pulled lopsidedly over his bare chest. “What?”

“You cannot give students gifts,” Ichirou hisses. He shoulders past Stuart and into the bedroom; it is warm, a faint glow emanating from the fireplace. There is a pile of blankets on the bed in the corner.

“Students shouldn’t visit professors at…two in the morning?” Stuart’s mumble turns into a tired sigh. He rubs at his eyes, socks shuffling against the carpet underfoot. “Sit down, then.”

“What? No,” Ichirou replies immediately, the knee-jerk reaction overriding his desire to say _yes._

Stuart sighs again, helplessly waving a hand. “All right, then. I apologize for giving you a gift?”

“It’s too late,” Ichirou continues, only half hearing him. “This is bad. I cannot even visit home for the holidays to give a formal apology. He will know what you did and I—”

“You nothing,” Stuart says, suddenly wide awake, and his hands are on Ichirou’s face.

This is not what Ichirou intended. He can feel his heart skip before it restarts with a painful thud. “You don’t—”

“I understand, and nothing will happen. I sent something to him first,” Stuart admits. “His rich gift will distract and please him enough to overlook this. You don’t have to worry about it. Just…enjoy it.”

Enjoy a gift. As if gifts are not leverage and promises and respect due. Ichirou curls his hands in the sleeves of Stuart’s sweater. “Honesty.”

There is an obvious flicker of dread in Stuart’s eyes. He _knows_ , _he knows_ , and Ichirou barreled forth despite that. Stuart opens his mouth, breath bated, and agrees, “Honesty.”

“Did you love me?”

_How many times did he see? How many times did he look? Did he ever see my smile? My laugh?_

Stuart could stay silent. He could, but—

—but he is _Stuart_ , so he says instead, “I do. And I can’t do that to you.”

Stuart sighs. His hand is on Ichirou’s back and he steers them toward the door, but this isn’t what Ichirou wants, _I don’t want this_ , and he digs his feet in and turns—

—and he says, “No.”

“Ichi—”

“ _No_ ,” Ichirou repeats, a little louder, and he wonders whether the thump in his chest is panic or pain or heartbreak, or some monstrous combination of it all. “You promised. You promised you would try—”

“Sex won’t fix you,” Stuart says harshly, but it comes out strangled. Desperate. “I won’t use you; not after what—”

“That’s not what I want,” Ichirou insists. “It’s not what I _want_.”

“Then what do you want?”

Ichirou’s hands are shaking. He knows they are shaking but he cannot stop them; not when he holds Stuart’s face in his hands and not when he stays there, breathless and terrified.

“I want you to tell me this might not work,” Ichirou whispers. “And I want you to tell me that you’ll try. I want you to yell at me when you’re angry and hold me when I’m sick, and I want your _honesty_ —”

Somewhere along the middle, Stuart’s eyes are drawn to Ichirou’s mouth, and then Ichirou is drawn into a kiss.

He cannot even comprehend it for the _relief_ he feels, like hitting the ground after missing a step; it is a fall that seems to have taken his entire life. Stuart feels warm and careful and _constant_ , like nothing good Ichirou has ever had in his life.

Stuart is _safe,_ and he is _perfect_ , and Ichirou kisses him until he forgets where he is and why he’s there in the first place.

It isn’t the worst thing he’s ever done at two in the morning. In fact, it might be the best.

Stuart pulls away far too soon. He hesitates a breath away, searching Ichirou’s face. “You should go back to your room.”

Ichirou manages an uneven laugh. “What is it going to take for you to _take_ me, already—”

“I’m not going to take,” Stuart gasps, a faint hint of offense in his reply. “I would never—”

“Okay, well, could you _once_?”

“Impossible,” Stuart says fondly, but he chuckles and bumps his forehead against Ichirou’s.

Ichirou thinks he dies a few times in the span of two seconds.

“I need you,” Ichirou says quietly, not as a demand but as honesty. “I think I always have.”

Stuart hums. He presses a kiss to Ichirou’s pulse, along the side of his neck, and it sends a shiver up his spine. “Then I’m only sorry I took so long.”


	2. Want

“We should be looking at your paper,” Stuart mumbles, but he is smiling when Ichirou leans in again.

“It can wait.”

Ichirou tilts his head—feels Stuart’s nose bump against his, soft and careful, and registers the feather-soft brush of warm breath against his lips before they kiss.

He really loves kissing Stuart.

No matter how often they do this, Ichirou doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of it. Stuart’s fingers tangle with his, a lazy brush of palms that is warm and soft. Ichirou sits on Stuart’s desk with his legs parted, Stuart between them, nothing but the silence of the tiny office encompassing them.

Ichirou likes pushing his hands through Stuart’s curls. He likes the softness of them against his skin, just as delicate and rich as everything else about Stuart. Ichirou sometimes wonders if he is too handsy when he’s kissing Stuart, but there haven’t been any complaints. Not yet.

This is the common uncommon—Ichirou on Stuart’s desk, their meeting abandoned in favor of touching and kissing. Exploring each other, instead of the thesis Stuart is supposed to be approving.

Of course, as usual, it doesn’t take long for Ichirou to want more.

The lovely, frustrating thing about Stuart is that he is patient. Maybe a little _too_ patient. He hasn’t let Ichirou into his bedroom since his confession, and Ichirou hasn’t had time to pursue him outside of their student-professor meetings.

So, when Stuart pulls back, Ichirou uses his legs to hold Stuart in front of him.

“Do you not want—”

Ichirou licks his lips. Considers that it is too late to stop now, despite the sudden fear that spikes through his heart.

Stuart frowns. His hands untangle from Ichirou’s to hold his face, gentle. “What is it?”

Too late, Ichirou thinks. He can’t not say it, now. “Do you not want me?”

There’s a lightning-strike flash of shock and dismay on Stuart’s face. The crippling disappointment nearly kills Ichirou to see, especially on the one person he has come to—

— _to what?_

“I do,” Stuart whispers, his thumbs brushing soft circles on Ichirou’s cheeks. “Of course, I do.”

“Okay.” Ichirou bites his lip, considering his next words carefully. “I…”

He can’t say it. Not _more_ , when he cannot ask for anything in the first place. _If you must ask for it, you do not require it. All you need, you will be given._

 _Hm._ He does not like his uncle’s voice filtering into his head now, of all times, when he is supposed to be safe. When he is with Stuart, and everything else in the world has stopped invading long enough for them to be together.

“You want…more,” Stuart says carefully, not exactly a question. He isn’t angry or annoyed. There is no frustration or disbelief in his tone.

Ichirou can barely reply with, “Yes.”

“You can want more,” Stuart says lowly, his hands still soothing where they rest on Ichirou’s face. “It’s okay to want more. To ask for it.”

_Is it, though?_

He wants to go back. Rewind to the very moment Stuart’s hands in his changed, their weight promising and enticing all at once.

“I should look at your work,” Stuart says gently. He seals the reminder with a kiss, brief but reassuring, and Ichirou did not know he needed it until it happens. “We don’t have to do this now. Take your time.”

So he says, but Ichirou misses him already. Stuart steps back and Ichirou is left a little colder, wishing he had never taken a second to doubt himself.

He wants this. Wants Stuart. _And that damn man is not going to stop me from having him, too._

* * *

“Oh, fuck,” Stuart complains, ducking as the rain pours harder over his head.

Ichirou is right on his heels, rushing toward the school. The campus is almost entirely empty; so many students have left for the weekend or disappeared to their rooms. The storm outside is verging on horrific, but Stuart and Ichirou left to have dinner at the cafeteria. The power was out when they arrived, so they were forced to walk back hungry and soaked.

Now, they’re even more soaked.

Stuart is laughing as he jogs down the corridor, shoes tapping against the stone floor. The building is chilly even through Ichirou’s wool jacket, and he knows his room will be even colder.

“Christ,” Stuart laughs. He turns sideways as he walks, curls clinging to his forehead and stormy eyes sparkling. “I can’t believe this. We’re meant to go hungry and cold, apparently.”

“At least you have a proper fireplace,” Ichirou gripes, raking his hair back from his face. “My high-class room doesn’t heat evenly.”

“Mm. Well, it’s my fault you’re soaked,” Stuart admits. “Why don’t you come warm up? It’s the least I could do.”

“That, and whatever you may have to drink that would help,” Ichirou snorts.

He is at Stuart’s door before he contemplates the alternate meaning of the invitation, and then Ichirou’s heart is soaring into his throat.

_Is this…?_

He can’t ask.

Well, he _could_ , but Ichirou finds he doesn’t want to. Particularly not after their last attempted conversation. He wants Stuart, but he also wants something natural. An easy progression, instead of the worried stumbling he feels is becoming the bane of his existence.

Stuart takes his coat when they step inside the room. There’s a tiny desk by the door and a bathroom across from it. The bed on the right side of the room is situated next to a window that overlooks the grounds; a fireplace sits empty across from it. There’s a small kitchenette by the right side of the door, a single electric burner and sink populating the space meant more for making tea than any proper meals.

It feels cozy. Different than the rest of the university, somehow, as if Stuart’s presence alone has transformed it. The small lights hanging around the perimeter of the ceiling may have something to do with that.

“Professors certainly do receive only the best,” Ichirou murmurs, toeing his shoes off as Stuart goes to start the fire.

Stuart laughs. “I wouldn’t say best, but I’m sure the student accommodations are less…diverse.”

The fire is soon crackling and then Ichirou finds himself face-to-face with Stuart, his heart thudding in his ears. There is something indescribable about the way Stuart looks at him—the curve of his smile, the fondness in his eyes, and the gentle lowering of his lids as he considers whether to kiss Ichirou or say something.

Ichirou decides for him. It is a simple thing to slide his hands over Stuart’s shoulders and let him pull Ichirou in, his first kiss soft and reassuring, like he wants to remind Ichirou that he will be careful. In the next breath, his tongue slides against Ichirou’s mouth and then finds willingly parted lips, heat coiling between them.

 _Fuck,_ Ichirou thinks, because it might be freezing, but his skin is on fire. There is a rabid hum in his bones and a voice insisting that he needs _more_.

The voice might be what prompts Ichirou to stick his hands under Stuart’s shirt. Stuart just twitches reflexively—cold hands, Ichirou thinks—and then he is guiding Ichirou back against the wall in a careful waltz. Ichirou is grateful for the support when his hands slide over Stuart’s chest, solid muscle smooth under his palms. Ichirou thinks he might be shivering, but he blames Stuart for being infuriatingly perfect.

The usual places for Stuart’s hands are simple; Ichirou’s hands, his shoulders, his head. His back.

Tonight, Stuart’s thumbs dip into Ichirou’s waistband and slide along his hips. Ichirou feels the touch radiate through his entire body the way his moan does, rendering him useless and still for a moment while Stuart kisses him harder.

It should probably not be possible to make kissing feel like fucking, but Stuart is impossible on a good day, so Ichirou doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

 _His hands are gentle._ They are gentle even when they push against bone, following the dip of Ichirou’s hips and etching shapes into his skin. They are hands so wildly different than what Ichirou has known, and they take him apart inch by torturous inch.

Stuart bites Ichirou’s lip, and Ichirou thinks _I am going to cum in my pants like a horny teenager,_ and it’s half an internal jab until Stuart’s knee comes up between his legs.

Ichirou gasps, his nails digging into Stuart’s chest, and then he loses his sense of direction when Stuart pulls him away from the wall. The second Stuart stops kissing him, Ichirou groans in displeasure.

“Tell me you want this,” Stuart mumbles against Ichirou’s lips. His voice is so deliciously low Ichirou wants to eat it, but he determinedly concentrates on answering.

“I want you,” Ichirou says raggedly, taking steps toward the bed while Stuart lets himself be guided backward. “Please. I _want_ you.”

It should not be this easy to say it. Maybe it isn’t, and only this moment has given him enough strength. Ichirou doesn’t give a damn. He only cares that Stuart rips his shirt off without much care and Ichirou almost falls, weak-kneed, onto the bed. Ichirou should not feel shy or giddy about it—he’s had his share of hurried strip jobs from other men—but he _does._

Ichirou feels like this is his first time doing anything remotely intimate and that should not as exciting as it is. He doesn’t even know why he feels it, but he does, and he loves the shivers that run over his skin when Stuart’s hands pull his pants off.

“Honesty. Lovely,” Stuart murmurs, one word that is so simple but gut-wrenchingly perfect. “You are lovely, darling.”

 _Ridiculous,_ Ichirou thinks, and he wants to tell Stuart he’s being dramatic. That he is abusing words like _love_ and he doesn’t truly mean any of it.

Except Stuart _does_ mean it, because he promised _honesty_ and did not ask a question. He only gave an answer.

He _is_ an answer, Ichirou thinks, to a question Ichirou never asked. Could not ask.

“I am going to love you,” Stuart says simply, like he is giving Ichirou the date and time. His careful hands push Ichirou back onto the bed, slow and deliberate. “Now and always.”

“You have me undressed,” Ichirou gasps, half disbelieving and half overfilled with _too much_ at once. Too much he never asked for. “You don’t have to charm me.”

Stuart kisses him, and Ichirou feels as if he is losing his mind. He is absolutely losing his breath, and then Stuart backs away with an assured expression. “You have well and truly charmed me, my love. Allow me to do the same.”

Ichirou cannot reply; is not sure how to, because _how could he say no?_

There is a breath between Stuart’s declaration and the sensation of his tongue on Ichirou’s cock, wet and warm through the fabric of his briefs. Ichirou barely tangles his hands in the sheets before he is gasping, wishing for more even as Stuart is pulling away the last layer between them.

Stuart closes his lips over Ichirou’s cock and everything is drowned by blinding heat. Ichirou can’t form words; he only moans while Stuart takes him whole without prompting, his hands brushing over Ichirou’s body with the faintest ghost of a touch.

Ichirou doesn’t expect the orgasm that hits him in a blinding flash, the world drowned in a photo-flash white as he cries out. His heart is thudding so hard he thinks it’s audible, but Stuart only licks his lips—

— _licks his fucking lips_ —

—and moves up Ichirou’s body with a contented smile.

“That—that wasn’t fair,” Ichirou chokes, still winded.

Stuart laughs. “You’re young,” he says, unworried. His hand brushes over Ichirou’s cock and the touch is almost too much, but Ichirou can feel a thrum of interest taking over again. “But I don’t mind finishing here, if you—”

“No,” Ichirou blurts, incredulous. “No, I want you—”

“It doesn’t have to be now—”

Ichirou wants to throw his hands up. Instead, he grabs Stuart’s face and stares into his eyes. He decides for once, he doesn’t give a fuck about what the voice at the back of his mind tells him or what he should and shouldn’t want.

“I want to feel you inside me,” Ichirou says, ignoring the rush of his pulse in his ears. “And if you’re clean, I want _everything_.”

Stuart doesn’t move. Ichirou thinks perhaps he said a bit too much, but then Stuart is crushing his lips against Ichirou’s. Whatever intensity Stuart channeled into his attention before, it comes at Ichirou what feels like a thousand times stronger.

It _definitely_ does things to Ichirou when Stuart breathes against his neck, his voice smooth and low when he says, “Turn.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

Ichirou hardly notices Stuart move, and then he forgets to care because Stuart is kissing a hot line down his back, teeth scraping lightly over skin.

“Please—" Ichirou manages, his voice catching in his throat, and then Stuart’s hand is smoothing over the curve of his ass and a finger presses into him. “St— _aaaahhhh_ —”

“Lovely,” Stuart says again, as if he is listening to a symphony, and he might as well be, with all the sounds tumbling from Ichirou’s lips. “Do you feel good, darling?”

“Ye—yes, _yes_ ,” Ichirou sobs. His face feels hot and his forehead is pressed into the sheets. He can’t concentrate on one feeling long enough to decide what he wants to say or do. “Please—”

“What do you want, love? Tell me.”

Stuart is so _damned_ smug, so collected and steady that Ichirou wants to pull away just to spite him. Except it feels _so good_ , and Ichirou couldn’t tell up from down even if he wanted to, so he just says, “You. Please, _you,_ need you—”

There is nothing else he could say, but it doesn’t matter. Stuart pulls his hand away and Ichirou is spreading his legs on instinct before Stuart is suddenly turning him around, as careful as always.

“Take what you need,” Stuart murmurs, his kisses slow and short. “I want to see your face.”

He should say no. _I should say no,_ Ichirou thinks, _because I can’t hide the truth._ He’s never been able to hide the truth in his eyes. On his face. He has never had to, and he has been taught not to. Ichirou isn’t sure what he’ll give away.

He remembers what Stuart said before.

“I don’t take,” Ichirou echoes, because he thinks he is learning and he wants to know that he is in control of just how much he has to lose. “But I want to give you everything you want.”

Stuart’s eyes widen a little, maybe surprised at the confession or something else entirely. Ichirou only knows that he feels steadier when he straddles Stuart, reaching behind him to guide Stuart inside.

The slide feels as endless as his moan; Ichirou briefly, wildly thinks that he’s never taken someone so big before, and then his thighs are shaking as he holds himself in Stuart’s lap.

“Lovely,” Stuart gasps, and _finally_ , he sounds just as unsteady as Ichirou’s heartbeat feels. “You are lovely, love—”

Ichirou dumbly realizes too late that he has never been in this position before. The physical position, facing someone else and holding onto their shoulders for dear life as he figures out how to move just right. He has only ever been made to face away or be shoved down into a mattress while someone else fucked him.

He thinks he likes this. He thinks he _loves_ this, riding Stuart as slowly as he dares at first, his body adjusting to the stretch while Stuart sucks marks onto his chest.

Ichirou still feels drawn out, sensitive from his last orgasm but heated all over again from the need overcoming him. His cock feels too heavy and too much, and he is distantly aware of the fuzzy edges of climax threatening him again.

“More,” Ichirou mumbles, a little slurred and completely distracted by the feeling of Stuart inside of him. “Want—want more—”

“You’ve done so well,” Stuart whispers, his hands dipping under Ichirou’s ass and cupping him like his weight is nothing at all. “So lovely.”

Whatever Ichirou’s response is dies on his tongue, and he is content to leave it there while Stuart guides him faster, the hot slide of his cock hitting Ichirou so deeply he thinks he might forget his name.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps, his voice a bare whine as he feels the end rush closer. “ _Yes, please_ , _more_ —”

Ichirou thinks he might draw blood when he digs into Stuart’s back. He doesn’t have any energy left to move but he wants _more_ , and then Stuart dips him back onto the bed like a goddamn mind reader and Ichirou chokes out a shocked _ah_ that is more pleasure than pain when Stuart _slams_ into him without reserve.

There are probably a hundred filthy things escaping Ichirou’s mouth, but he can’t hear them over the sound of Stuart fucking him into the mattress.

Ichirou’s orgasm tears through him like an electric shock; he thinks he might scream and decides that if anyone heard, it is a problem he’ll deal with once he leaves bed. If he ever wants to again.

The best part of it is feeling Stuart gasping against his open mouth, their sweaty foreheads pressed together while Ichirou shudders. He can still feel Stuart inside of him, his cock _and his cum_ , and Ichirou wonders when he became so shameless.

It was probably some time after he left home. Or maybe just when he saw Stuart again.

“Okay?” Stuart mumbles. His chest is still heaving and he shifts, slow and careful as always when he pulls out.

Ichirou hisses a little, but he loosens his grip on Stuart’s shoulders and hums. “Just lovely.”

Stuart laughs. It’s loveliest thing Ichirou has ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....that may have been too much

**Author's Note:**

> no one asked for this (well, maybe one person) but I wrote it anyway


End file.
